


Does It Make a Difference

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: Whether You Fall [3]
Category: Marvel
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Phil Coulson, Gen, Mastermind Phil Coulson, Mental three dimensional chess, POV Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28323921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Natasha has to admit, she’s a little bit impressed.Maybe even more than a little.
Series: Whether You Fall [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723993
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	Does It Make a Difference

**Author's Note:**

> Whether it's the sunshine  
> Whether it's the rain  
> Does it make a difference  
> Do you complain
> 
> Whether you fall  
> Means nothing at all  
> It's whether you get up  
> It's whether you get up
> 
> Tracy Bonham- Whether you fall

Natasha regains consciousness slowly, her head aches and she’s bruised but nothing is broken. She’s in a hospital bed, the room smelling sterile and antiseptic, arms encased from fingertips to elbows in a strange sleeve of metal and plastic filled with some sort of gel or padding that keeps her from so much as twitching a finger. She feels the heft of the arm binder. It will be a convenient weapon. 

She’s strapped down, shoulders, hips, and ankles, and she actually wants to cry a little bit; she suppresses the feeling. 

She refuses to feel trapped. 

She’s barefoot and dressed in a loose pair of scrubs; Natasha supposes she should be grateful that it isn’t a hospital gown, though what gratitude she feels evaporates as she checks under her gum line and finds the thin strips of metal missing. 

It’s fine. 

She’s worked with less. 

At least she isn’t gagged. 

Their mistake. 

There’s a guard at the door. A blond woman, about 5’ 8” wearing a high necked dark navy blue uniform with white gloves, belt, and boots. There’s a patch high on the left side of her chest, a white circle with a stylized black bird of some sort and she has a white holster at her belt with a strange looking gun; the thumb break is off. 

If they think she will be lulled into a false sense of security by having a female guard they don’t know her at all. 

The door opens, confirming her assumption that she’s being watched, and an unassuming man in an ill fitting suit steps in, thinning hair, harried expression on a reasonably attractive, if bland, face; he has a tablet in one hand that he appears to be studying, unaware of her presence and how dangerous she is.

She would have been fooled if it hadn’t been for the subtle way the guard seems to come to attention. 

This is no pencil pusher. This is someone Important.

He takes one look at her and confirms her suspicions as he changes his posture and the suit falls into place, perfectly tailored, and his expression clears to a neutral state that has the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

“I don’t think those will be necessary any longer, Carter,” he says, gesturing towards Natasha’s restraints.

“Sir, Director Fury said—.”

He cuts her off with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” she says and pulls out her gun and for a second Natasha _knows_ she’s about to be shot but the man touches the back of Carter’s wrist then holds out his hand.

“Sir—.”

There’s the eyebrow again and the guard gives him her weapon with obvious reluctance. Natasha expects him to point at her, but he holds it to his side in a competently loose grip.

The guard, unable or unwilling to turn her ire on the man, glares at Natasha and is a little rough as she undoes the straps. 

She steps back and Natasha slowly sits up. The last of the effects from whatever gas was in that arrow seems to be wearing off as her headache fades, though the counter balance is that she feels each and every bruise that much more sharply. 

“The cuffs, too, if you would be so kind.”

Carter’s lips pinch and she looks even angrier but Natasha can tell the anger is masking fear. 

Good. 

She wants them to be afraid of her. It’s obviously too late for any sort of innocent act.

Carter taps a pattern against the flat surface up by Natasha’s elbows, a keypad of some sort, each press glows slightly and has a tone, but the location, tone, and colors of the glow aren’t always the same based on where she presses, in some cases in up to three places at once. It appears it’s less important exactly where she pushes than the amount of pressure, for how long, and the specific timing. Even if Natasha had been able to reach the control panel with her chin, it would have taken her some time to crack. 

She inhales sharply against her will as the lining pulls away with a sucking sound after a series of clicks and then Carter drags the horrible things off her arms, watching Natasha’s face. 

As if her face would ever give anything away she doesn’t want to.

“That you, Carter. That will be all,” he says as the guard backs away warily.

“Sir, protocol states—.”

“Who do you think wrote the protocols?”

She looks mutinous and ready to object again as he hands her back her gun. He smiles and it transforms his face much like shifting his posture had changed the lay of his suit, there’s something in the confident reassurance and the humor in his eyes and he’s suddenly not just generically attractive, he’s someone _she_ finds attractive. 

It’s a disquieting feeling, and one more unexpected element to her capture. 

She wants to rub her wrists but instead sets them palm down on her thighs. The bite mark on the base of her right thumb has nearly healed thanks to the Red Room’s knock off super soldier serum. 

She feels a small measure of relief; as strong as the serum is, even it would not have been able to grow back her thumb if it had been completely severed.

“I’ll inform the Director that you're starting in on the interrogation, sir,” she says and his body language doesn’t change but she can tell he’s displeased with her phrasing.

“Thank you, Agent Carter. You can let him know that we’ll be in room 3,” he says in clear dismissal. The guard leaves with one last wary look at Natasha. 

“Ms. Romanov; it’s a true pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he says as he approaches her and holds out his hand, “I’m Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD.”

She could kill him easily, and she can tell that he knows it, but he smiles as if this were a job interview and not a prisoner intake. 

She ignores his hand and he shrugs. 

“This way, if you would,” he opens the door and heads out, turning his back on her and she debates the merits of killing him or taking him as a hostage but he has her curious enough that she pads after him on bare feet instead.

He’s silent, but she sees the way he acknowledges everyone they pass and the way they give the two of them a respectful berth. Everyone, that is, until they turn down the second hallway and there’s a pack of eight soldiers in black tac gear, jogging in military rhythm behind a man in forest camo.

Neither the lead soldier nor Coulson give way and instead come to a stop in front of each other. The soldier holds up a fist and his people fall into a parade rest behind him in two even columns. They’re the first people besides her escort who haven’t had SHIELD’s logo on them; it’s been on the hallway walls about every twenty feet, on every uniform, or windbreaker, or pair of gym shorts.

She wonders how they’ve been able to stay in the shadows for so long with such a Western obsession of branding themselves. 

The soldier and the spy posture for a bit, their history crackling around them, before the soldier breaks, “Phil. Another souvenir? This is getting to be a habit.”

This irritates Coulson, more emotion than he’s shown so far, and it doesn’t appear to be an artifice. Natasha doesn’t let her amusement show; she isn’t sure if he is upset on her behalf or for some other reason but it’s good to know that the man can be ruffled. 

“They can take the jarhead out of the shit but not the shit out of the jarhead; eh, John? Not all of us like living in the past. You should get with the times. Adapt. Or has Fury finally approved your little plan to expand the STRIKE teams?” Coulson’s smile is cruel, “Do you really think Fury of all people will let you turn SHIELD into your own private military?”

“Just because I think SHIELD could stand a little more order and a little less,” he gestures at Phil and Natasha, “Chaos doesn’t mean I’m planning a coup.”

“No, of course not. Coups are my department. I’m sure you would never dare step on my toes.”

“Oh, trust me, Phil, when we dance, you’ll know. Now, if you don’t mind we’ve got orders from up top.”

Coulson’s face doesn’t change but she can sense the frown. 

So can John, apparently, and he smiles a shark tooth grin before pushing past them, his men following suit.

They walk for a bit in silence and then he says the strangest thing, “I apologize. I hadn’t planned on introducing you to STRIKE Team Alpha quite so soon.”

She makes a non committal noise.

They get to a black and white door and after a second the pattern resolves itself into a giant black 3 taking up the entire door.

He opens the door and scowls, “You better not have checked yourself out AMA again.”

“Would I do that?” Answers the man she fought in Havana; the man who had caught her, the one that had been an unshakable tail for months before suddenly being in front of her with a trap so carefully planned, so elegant and unobtrusive, that she had to admire it even as she resented it. 

Clint. He had said his name was Clint.

Of course, by now she’s realized it wasn’t Clint’s trap, it was Coulson’s.

She’s sure of it. 

The interrogation room is small, not much more room than needed for the small rectangular table, solid steel from the look of it and bolted to the floor with a pair of lightweight metal chairs to either side. Settled in on the far side of the table, Clint makes the already small room feel cramped, like he takes up more than just physical space. 

His heels are kicked up on the table and he’s leaning the chair back on two legs. His eyes have raccoon circles under them, partially obscured by the white bandage splinting his nose. He has a smattering of butterfly bandages from when she slammed his face through that window and a wide bandage on the right side of his jaw from her boot knife. 

He’s still wearing the dirt and blood smeared tac vest he was wearing when he had cornered her, though he’s removed the single sleeve. Instead of leaving both arms bare, they’re now reversed with the other one wrapped in bandages. She doesn’t think her nails gouged in deeply enough to warrant stitches, but it’s nice to see they made a lasting impression. Nearly every one of his fingers is wrapped in its own little white bandage, and while his uniform is still dirty his nails are clean. 

“So, if I call Dr. Singh…”

“Go right on ahead,” he says, stretching his arms up, lacing his fingers together, and placing his hands behind his head.

For all his nonchalant eyes, something about him tells her he’s worried. If she had to guess it would be for Coulson’s safety.

It warms her heart, for a second there she was concerned these people weren’t taking her seriously. 

“Do you think I won’t?” Coulson stares him down.

He looks away, “It’s only a minor concussion.”

Coulson doesn’t say anything. 

“A teeny baby one. I’ll be fine in like an hour.”

Coulson’s head tilts to the side.

Clint quits rocking on the two legs and slips his feet off the table and to the floor, the final two legs slamming into the floor, “Fine,” he pouts as he stands, “You’re no fun.”

“So you’ve said. Go do everything Alicia tells you and you can tell her I said you can have a lollipop.”

The man blushes and says, “Asshole,” as he presses into Coulson’s space on his way out the door.

“Please, Ms. Romanov,” Coulson says, “Sit. We should talk.”

She takes Clint’s seat, resting her palms on the table.

“I think I will steal your boyfriend,” she tells him, the first words she’s said. She goes for a neutral American accent, the foreign words heavy and dull in her mouth. 

«He’s not my boyfriend, but you're welcome to try,» and it’s not just Russian, but the long forgotten Russian of her mother.

However dangerous she thought this man before, she was wrong.

She’s not used to underestimating people. 

She doesn’t like the feeling and goes on the offensive, “You think because he does not fuck you he is not your boyfriend?”

It had been impossible not to see the mix of worship and longing in Clint’s eyes when he looked at Coulson; a look she’s manipulated no small number of people into giving her. 

She wonders what that expression would look like on Coulson’s face. 

For some reason she has a hard time imagining it. 

“I think it doesn’t matter who he fucks and that you already knew this line of attack wouldn’t work.”

He’s good. He’s very good. 

She thinks she likes him. 

It may not matter to Coulson who Clint fucks, but it obviously means a great deal to Clint. That will be her real in. 

“My apologies,” he says with a faint smile and with what might even be pride, “Perhaps it’s working after all.”

He is delightful. 

She laughs, inviting him in to share her amusement she says, “Oh, I like you, Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. Maybe I should steal you from him.”

“Again, he isn’t my boyfriend,” he smiles blandly, “And, again, you’re welcome to try.”

Oh, yes, there is so much fertile ground. Maybe she will stick around after all and see what he really wants. 

She’s never been more intrigued by a mark, almost in spite of herself, and, yes, she’s decided. He’s going to be hers, “I should warn you, Agent Coulson; I always get my target.”

“I’ve heard that before. And I’ll tell you what I told him: So do I.”

This is going to be fun.

He leaves her alone in the room but she doesn’t have long to wait before there’s a knock at the door and she has to fight the frown that wants to form. 

The door opens and it’s the guard from before, Carter, and once again she knows she’s about to be shot. 

This time she’s right. 

~~~

Natasha regains consciousness slowly. 

Again. 

At least this time there’s no headache and the last of her injuries have healed. Even the scar around her thumb is fading. 

She’s laying on top of a single bed, the pillow and bedclothes more luxuriant than some five star hotels she’s been in. 

It’s a small room, just big enough for the bed and a tall but narrow locker. There are two doors, the one across from the bed opens to an even smaller bathroom, the toilet and sink fold up so that there’s room to take a shower. There’s a wrapped toothbrush, travel toothpaste and a hairbrush, and she can think of about ten different ways to use them as weapons off the top of her head. 

She debates breaking the toothbrush so that it had a sharp edge and twisting it up in her hair, but she is sure every angle of her cell, and that’s what it is, a cell, is on a screen somewhere and she has no expectation of privacy.

The door at the foot of the bed has magnetic locks, with no panels that she can detect on this side, the walls are a smooth metal with no seams outside of the doors. 

It’s all utilitarian but more than she expected, honestly.

She opens the locker and is shocked to find her catsuit, though not surprised to find it missing all its obvious weaponry. All the non-obvious as well, aside from how useful the cloth itself is, and that shouldn’t be surprising at this point, but it is. 

Hanging next to it are a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra, both with the SHIELD logo, then dark blue jeans, and a plain white t-shirt. On the bottom shelf are a couple of pairs of plain white bikini briefs and bras, sadly without underwire.

Interesting. 

It’s all in her size, which is only mildly disturbing when compared to the three paperback books on the shelf just above eye level. All of them are trashy American romance novels, but that isn’t the worst part. 

They’re all from her favorite author. 

That’s something not even her former handlers knew, one of the few secrets she knows she kept from the Red Room and it’s lackeys, if they had known they would have used it against her; and while she may have overindulged in them when she had first gained her freedom, she’s much more circumspect these days. 

She feels a shiver up her spine as she contemplates the outfits. 

Do they, or more importantly, does _he_ expect her to change, and if so, what message does each outfit send. 

Has she already spent too much time staring into the closet?

There would be a certain amount of comfort, of familiarity, to her catsuit and she discards it as an option, sure that he would see weakness in that choice. 

The gym clothes would be a better option if not for the branding, black with the logo in white over the left breast of the shirt and ‘SHIELD’ running down the top of the left thigh of the sweatpants, and while wearing them could signal that she doesn’t care, it also feels like it would be a concession. 

Same for the jeans and t-shirt, in their way, and if all three outfits were put here to drive her crazy they’re doing a good job. 

Will staying in the scrubs send the message that she doesn’t care or that she’s indecisive? Is she rejecting his offerings or playing right into his hands?

Is this a carefully concealed trap, or are they just clothes?

Unless she’s wildly misjudged Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD, it’s the former, and she can’t help but feel caught no matter what she does. 

Natasha smiles and changes into the gym clothes, acknowledging that the point this round goes to him.

~~~

She’s sitting on the side of the bed debating reading Husbands for Sale, one she’s read so often she practically has it memorized, the other two are newer, ones she hasn’t read yet, when there’s a knock at the door. 

She’ll give them this: they’re polite. 

She thinks back to the soldier, John. 

Maybe not all of them. 

She’s standing when the door opens by recessing and then sliding to the side with a pneumatic hiss.

“Hi!” Clint smiles, absurdly cheerful under his bandaged face, “Wanna spar?”

“Are you sure you are up for it?”

He laughs, “I’m always up for having a pretty lady knock me around,” he says with a wink, “Just be gentle. Phil specifically said that he’d be,” he makes air quotes, “‘Incredibly put out’ if I let you kill me.”

She raises an eyebrow and he laughs again, light and free in a way she’s never been. 

He leads her to a large room, empty of everything but tumbling mats. She clocks three potential exit routes and access to more weapons that she could have hoped for; she debates making an attempt now, the danger of remaining is greater than any risk in escaping, but decides to keep gathering as much intelligence as she can. 

She knows the value of patience. 

They square off against each other and before she has a chance to move he’s on her, fast and graceful and she had thought it had only seemed that way in their first encounter because of the gas he had shot at her slowing her down, but if this is him holding back, she’s glad they wanted to take her in alive. 

She’s just as vicious, barely pulling her blows to leave bruises and not breaks. 

She thinks she could probably kill him now; the fool has his guard down, but she will only have one chance, of that she is sure. 

What would Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD do if she killed his little pet?

It’s almost worth trying just to see. 

She’s flying through the air, caught off guard again and he follows it up with what should have been a killing blow, would have been a killing blow in the Red Room, but he stops short and flicks her nose with the tip of his finger.

He’s such a curious mix of innocence and lethality and she spares a moment to wonder what he’s like in bed, and at Coulson’s restraint in not fucking him. 

She’s not sure which predator she finds more attractive, the one held in check only by his Master’s will, or the man who holds his leash. 

She thinks she might keep them both.

  
  



End file.
